


Sanctuary

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: Dog Days of Summer [26]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: dogdaysofsummer, M/M, Makeouts, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-26
Updated: 2005-08-26
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:25:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3640149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius has declared a moratorium on all talk of the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

_There is a place where the sidewalk ends_  
_And before the street begins,_  
_And there the grass grows soft and white,_  
_And there the sun burns crimson bright,_  
_And there the moon-bird rests from his flight_  
_To cool in the peppermint wind._  
-Shel Silverstein.

*

In the little flat above the sweetshop, Sirius has declared a moratorium on all talk of the war. Inside the small (cozy, warm), dilapidated (comfortable, homey) flat, it is always summer. Not the sweet green days of June or the high adventurous nights of July, but the gold-kissed endless haze of August, star-strewn and smelling of suntan lotion, sand, and sex in secret places, away from the prying eyes of friends, landladies, tourists--all those who don’t, won’t, can’t understand.

It's too hot to curl up skin to skin on the sofa, which is stained and stinking of curry and sex from too many meals of the former interrupted by the latter, but they do it anyway, with languid touches and feather light brushes of lips across salty skin, the air cool over the whorls and trails of saliva they leave on each other’s bodies. Sirius disdains cooling charms, perhaps aware of how the heat and light of the August sun burnishes him to untouchable bronze, black hair silken and shining even in the ungodly humidity that makes Remus--always too warm, even on the coldest days--feel like his bones are melting.

Remus sinks down into the cushions, wearing only his y-fronts, the rough nap of the upholstery scratchy against his skin. Sirius massages Remus’s shoulders, working out the kinks from too many days spent hunched over ancient scrolls, and when they kiss, Sirius’s mouth tastes of peppermint, a cool shiver of winter that revives Remus. He clings to Sirius, eagerly breathing him in, a breath of fresh air that drives away the heat and drives it higher at the same time.

They tangle and thrust on the old, creaky sofa in the lambent, old gold light of the August sun, breathing in peppermint and love and the promise of autumn, pretending the war can’t reach them here.

*


End file.
